acid rain on us but i ran away
by hyacinthian
Summary: Barney and Robin try to fix themselves. Post - The Goat.


The minute he steps on the plane, he shakes his head. "California," he tells the pilot. And with a roar of turbines and the screech of wheels, he is off. He wishes detachment was that easy.

Robin cradles her drink against her chest as she wanders the party. She bumps into Lily five times during that period. Eyes flitting around, she notes all the gloriously glamorous women throwing themselves at the three available men at the party. Where is Barney? He'd be all over that action. But a feeling settles in her chest - something that makes her skin prickle with goosebumps and her head ache. This is the fallout - their mushroom cloud is dispersing, change raining down on her like shrapnel. She can't dodge it - there is no running away when your world is on fire.

They land in Napa (but not before the pilot reminds him that there are actual _towns_ in California, and that the state itself is pretty huge, and landing somewhere where they _can_ land is pretty imperative, so next time a specific location would be nice) and he shrugs. It's good enough - they're famous for their vineyards and he needs alcohol. He walks around town in his suit, the warm air pressing in on him, suffocating him. He buys vodka. Vodka will solve all problems tonight.

She dials his number for the fifteenth time, and gets his voicemail for the fifteenth time. "Barney, it's..." she pauses, gulping in a mouthful of air (when did she get so nervous? this is Barney. this is _Barney_), "your wingman. Your bro. Call me back." At midnight, she fills his voicemail box and now she can't even hear the reassuring sound of his voice, its soothing timbre and warm tone as it tells her to leave a message for "the awesome Barney Stinson" at the beep. She calls it anyway. Maybe he'll pick up this time. Maybe. It rings and rings.

He doubles back to the liquor store, asks the clerk where the nearest shore is. He has the strangest impulse to see the ocean (well, a shore). The idea of sandcastles bubbles low in his throat because it reminds him of her, but--he takes another swig of vodka as the clerk tells him, "Vallejo." He whips out his iPhone and Googles the number for a taxi company. If he can't piece his life together, the least he can do is fulfill the hopes and dreams he can. He tries not to think of how its only the physical ones he can accomplish. (He calls in sick to work for the first time in ten years.)

She falls asleep with her head against the phone and when she wakes up, there is only silence and a slight static. She clicks the red cancel button, and dials another number. "Lily? It's Robin. Can you come over? I just...need someone to talk to." She's never missed her dogs more - they understand--under_stood_--her. She tries not to think of the ramifications, but the words have too many syllables, the words clunk around in her mouth, and ramifications is all she hears. Ramifications and consequences, ringing in her head like the Liberty Bell. She closes her eyes. The Liberty Bell. _Great._

She ties her hair up and looks at the clock; listens to the ticks and chews a piece of gum. She tries not to think of how much her life has degenerated without him. She doesn't need him (she does), she doesn't need him (she does), she doesn't need him (she does). Maybe if she thinks it enough, the parentheticals will go away. She sees pinstripes and silk when she closes her eyes, not blue french horns. (French horns have about 12 feet of tubing - no wonder she always felt lost.)

He ends up along Mare Island Way, the shore staring back at him at midnight. He had decided to hit up a 24-hour Walmart, buying a pair of jeans and a t-shirt multi-pack (always white, because he needs to dirty something). He changes along the shore; toes off his shoes (Kenneth Cole, retail -- who cares anymore? Bob Barker's not here, wasn't his father anyway), shrugs off his jacket, his shirt. He gets sand in everything and steps on his suit anyway, watches the fabric crinkle against the pressure of his feet and the shifting of the sand. The tide rolls along the beach and he listens to the sound of the crests slamming against the sand. "Because these wings are no longer wings to fly, but merely vans to beat the air. Teach us to care and not to care. Teach us to sit still. Because I do not hope to turn again," he whispers against the breeze. His voice comes out broken and gruff and the lines of poetry come out as prayer. But he never believed in praying much anyway (how long can you ask before you realize that no one's there to answer?).

He drinks more vodka as he stands, and he feels dizzy for a second. His phone buzzes against his leg. He fumbles with it for a second before flipping it open. "Hello?"

"Barney, thank God," he hears Robin's concerned voice.

"What's up?"

"Where are you? I've been calling you for--" Is that hesitation? "--just for a while now." There is no hesitation, should be no quivering in her voice - her feet are on the ground. Have been for hours. He's the one who's been floating away. He was only ever tethered, tethered, tethered -- and now someone's gone and cut him away like a parasite. Maybe that's what he always was.

"I'm in California."

"California, Barney? What the hell?"

"You don't have to worry about anything," he answers. "You never pick your feet up off the ground." He hangs up on her. Tonight's a night of firsts. He celebrates with another swig of vodka. The second time his phone buzzes against his leg, he ignores it and begins to slowly head towards the water.

Lily gets there just as Robin's hung up. She knocks at the door urgently. "Robin, open up!" She goes and opens the door. Lily's brown hair is all mussed, make-up half-finished. "What's going on? What--" So she pulls Lily inside, asks if she wants coffee or tea, and just sits down. She feels dazed, woozy.

"I have to talk to you." She clears her throat. "About Barney."

"Barney?"

If this were a chick flick, she'd sniffle and cry and say that she thinks she messed everything up (she wants to do that so bad). "He's in California."

"Huh." She decides to get coffee after all.

He stands in the tide, revels in the feeling of the tide pulling him towards and away, towards and away. He doesn't need Robin for this dance if he has the sea. Maybe he'll move here, and just stand all day. The sand covers his feet and his jeans (he rolled them up, ever so neatly, like the businessman he tries to tell everyone he is) begin to tumble down towards his knees. He doesn't try to stop it.

He breathes in the air - it is salt and brisk and cold. It tingles against his lungs with each inhale and exhale. He runs (throws his cell phone on the dry sand) and dives in the water, covers himself in it, swims further out. The tide moves against his face, and the water tastes salty against his lips - it's almost a substitute for tears (boys don't cry, mom always said so).

(I've made a mess of everything.) "He left because of me."

"You? What did you do?"

(I broke him. I broke his spirit. But everything was already broken - I just stepped on the shards.) "I think--I think he was okay with it."

"Okay with what?"

"Us," she repeats, exhaling. "Being together."

"Barney?" Lily blinks in disbelief. "No way."

"I think Ted said something to him."

"Ted?" She sees Kindergarten Teacher Lily begin to emerge, push itself through her pores, sees the resolve set in her face. "This is ridiculous. They're going to have to solve this by talking it out."

Robin rolls her eyes (can't help it, reflexive response). "Lily, talking it out? Ted is really mad at Barney and Barney's in California!"

"I need to talk to Marshall."

"No! No, no, no, no, no, no. Just, just try and keep this between us, okay, Lily?" There are 7 no's that time. (7 is an unlucky number, her mother always said so; "Let's Go to the Mall" was no. 7 on the Canadian charts and she never charted after that.)

He swims until his muscles burn and feel heavy. That's when he begins to swim back. He lies on his back on the sand (the grit digs into his pores like exfoliant, but there is no washing away, there is no scrubbing away emotion, no matter how hard he tries) and watches the sun rise. It's supposed to signify new beginnings, optimism, hope - it just makes him feel empty.

Time differences, he's used to. Jet lag too, to a degree. But as he lies there, his skin absorbing the sunlight greedily, he thinks that there is no making this up. This is Zeno at his best - he will always be one step behind. He will always be "gross, Barney" who hits on the drunk women, who's afraid of commitment, who can't, who can't, who can't.An arrow in an instant cannot be in motion. (Moving? Nothing can move in an instant; it's not moving? It can't move. There is no motion.) There is no change, there is no change. He should've flown to Nicaragua.

"What are you going to do?" Lily asks as Robin paces.

"I have to talk to Ted. He has to...I don't know... forgive Barney."

Lily clicks her tongue against her teeth. Marshall rubs at her arm. "I don't know, he seemed pretty mad last night."

But she's already out the door.

When it is almost mid-morning, his head begins to ache and he realizes that maybe he's going to end up in the throes of a hangover. Maybe he should head to Vegas. The fake lights there are just as good as in New York. Maybe better. But he'll risk everything (he always does, always does, and always loses). Is it worth the fight? He closes his eyes and feels soft skin and warm lips, hears his name dangle from the lips of someone who wanted to spit it out ("oh, Barney, yesss...").

This is his Symphony No. 8, his magnum opus, Movement No. 14, Opus 12. The pants of her hot breath against his shoulder, the way her nails dig into his side just as his grabs at her hip. Mutual possession, it seemed. (But it's regression, it's always just regression.) For someone who doesn't believe in commitment, she's awfully devoted to the fairy tale.

The thing about Ted's promotion is that he has an office now. With a door. So when she comes to visit him, he ushers her in there. He sits in his chair, leans back, gives her a grin. "Want me to build you an apartment around a faucet?" She shakes her head (no time for jokes, no time, time is already three hours ahead). "I want to talk about Barney and about...what happened." His face darkens.

"I don't want to talk about Barney."

She huffs. "You don't want to _talk_. That doesn't mean we don't have to."

"Fine. I told Barney I didn't want to be friends anymore. It's fine."

"It's not fine! Barney's in California right now!"

"Great!" Ted booms. "That's perfect for him. There are shallow models to fuck, money to be made, and Vegas is right around the corner."

"Ted, it takes two people to have sex," she replies. "I--I kissed him. Not the other way around. He asked me, he asked me if I wanted to stop. It was my fault."

"No," he says, defiantly. "Barney knew what he was doing."

"No, he didn't. Well, I mean, he did, but...ugh, Ted, it was MY fault. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry I lied to you, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I'm sorry I made you believe something that wasn't true, but I was afraid of this. I was afraid you were going to--do what you're doing now. Things have never quite gotten back to normal between us since we broke up, and that's fine. It's normal. But you need to talk to Barney."

"Don't you?" he snarls. And she stops. She slams the door on her way out (it is poetic, always poetic; she is a journalist after all) and storms out, her heels clicking noisily as she heads towards the elevator. She knows people are staring, people always stare. She thinks of turning around ("your boss is a fucking asshole, a douche of epic proportions, no wonder he can't find himself his fucking perfect wife").

His stomach grumbles and he blinks lazily, staring up into the brightness of the sun. He calls a taxi, takes it to Los Angeles (he's rich, what does he care? He paid Marshall money to be completely uesless). He looks ridiculous, coated in sand and guilt, but he doesn't care. Just wanders into a McDonald's and orders one of the breakfast specials. When he eats, the syrup coats the tip of his tongue as he bites into a pancake. It tastes like childhood.

He blinks and one of the TVs in McDonald's reports the news at him. He doesn't think of Metro News 1 (who is he kidding? that's all he thinks about. but when does he think?). At noon, his phone buzzes against his leg. He picks it up as he bites into the sausage patty. "Hi, Robin."

"Barney." Her breath hitches and he wonders if she's been crying (over him? No, it's all self-delusion. Always has been). He finishes it, stabs at the styrofoam platter with his plastic fork.

"How've you been?" The small talk gets under his skin, but he's determined to sound cool. Detached. Nothing happened between them. They're cool. You know, despite the fact that she won the custody battle. She gets Ted and Lily and Marshall and-- He gets sand in California and sticky guilt that runs its way along his tongue and through his arteries.

"Barney, don't--listen, I'm sorry." She trips over the words because she's not used to apologizing for the way she lives. Barney of all people should understand, but she's not farsighted; she can see, she can see (she always had 20/20 vision, hindsight included).

He closes his eyes, thinks of the way the stars and moon shone last night. Thinks of Walmart and bright yellow smiley faces beaming at him from everywhere. "You don't have anything to be sorry for."

"Please," she whispers, a hiss against the receiver, laden with regret and sadness and. And affection? His breath hitches in his throat and his pulse quickens (because nothing can be simple in his life, everything has to be a fight; he has to fight his body, fight his neighbors, fight his friends, fight everyone). "Please, Barney, come home."

He books a flight later that day.


End file.
